From my poetry blog.
In Spanish Hills In this fiery furnace is forged a languid blade, yet in these hills is a vibrant pulse. And formed within this small enclave is a definite sense of them, and us. The eye drowns in colour and shimmering haze, yet we carry around a windswept moor. On an azure calm our vision sails, but what comes to mind is a battered shore. ©AndrewJamesMurray